


last breath

by smallbeans



Series: the rhythm of the night [2]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Gore, Hurt Newt, Hurt Thomas, M/M, Mate bonds, Mates, Pack Feels, Vampire Newt, Werewolf Thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-06 05:58:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: He looks up to find something he's only seen in nightmares: the ground is caked in blood, bodies lay upon the red grass, unmoving and limp.The fight is over, but Thomas can't tell if they won.(I recommend reading part 1 to understand!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically Thomas' point of view of the ending war scene and Newt's recovery. I recommend reading the first part of this series to understand what is happening :)

Thomas can remember the day his pack were killed. He remembers it like it only happened yesterday. The memory is as clear as glass. He sees it every time he closes his eyes. He hears their screams and taunting words whenever the world gets too quiet. He can feel their hands holding him, making his watch when he's alone. Thomas will never forget, and he will never forgive - himself or the hunters who did it.

The idea of them coming back for him, for his new family, sits in the back of Thomas' mind constantly. It's the first thing he thinks in the morning, the first thing he thinks at night when he's laying in bed, unable to sleep because paranoia and guilt as he got him wound up so tight he's a spring threatening to snap.

It got easier when Newt came. Even more easier when he started sleeping in Thomas' room. The worst thing about vampires, Thomas thinks, is the fact that they have no heartbeat. Thomas hated laying in bed, being able to hear everyone apart from his own mate. When Newt started sleeping with Thomas, the nights became better. Thomas could physically reach out and touch him, to know that he was there with him. On the nights after they grew closer, their bodies curled around each other, Thomas could finally sleep. He had nightmares, just as before, but they weren't as harsh, they weren't as clear. He'd wake up with Newt framing his face with his cold hands, soft words breaking through the terrifying fog that settles around him. He'd hold Thomas, cradling his shaking frame when he'd jerk awake, the flames of the fire flashing before his eyes and the terror of the screams ringing in his ears.

And then suddenly, the nightmare that has haunted him for so many years comes barrelling into reality like a bull in a china shop. As the hunters who scarred his childhood stand on the ground he calls home, Thomas feels the memories of the fire rush back to him.

The grin is just as sadistic as Thomas can remember. He feels a shiver run down his spine like a bowling ball, hitting every individual vertebrae. Newt is a solid pressure at his side, pressed so lightly against him, enough to anchor him and keep him out of the whirlpool of panic in his mind.

"You're not welcome on our land," Jorge's low voice booms across the gardens.

The hunter laughs, and Thomas wonders why he never told him his name. More figures appear behind him, the black length of their guns and rifles catching Thomas' eyes as his heart sinks to the grass he stands on.

"Who?" He says, grinning again like this is all a huge game. It probably is to him. "Us, or our army?"

Thomas can't help but look at the vampires around them. He's seen feral and rogue wolves before, but this is nothing like it. This isn't feral, it's something else.

"Both," Jorge is replying. "This is pack land. Not for the likes of you."

"You're dogs. Abominations. You own  _nothing_ ," the hunter snaps, baring his teeth like an animal. "We're going to  _rip_  your little pack apart."

Thomas wants to step back when in unison, all the vampires snarl. It's something dark, something twisted that comes souring at him. He looks into the head one's eyes, trying to see past the red that doesn't belong their.

"They're being controlled," Thomas thinks out loud. He can't tear his eyes away from them, even when he feels Newt's eyes on him.

He can't get his thoughts to stop as they come tumbling towards him. The hunters are controlling Newt's old clan, his old  _family_. The hunters aren't just going to hurt him, he's going to hurt Newt too.

"Well done, Thomas," the hunter sneers, grinning patronisingly. "You've gotten smarter. Shame, really. Too bad you weren't smart enough all those years ago to save your family."

His control slips like sand through his fingers. He snarls, lips rolling back to bare his dropped fangs. He can feel the pinpricks of his claws pressing into his palms, fists clenched so tight the skin splits.

The hunter laughs, low and chuckling like a maniac. He stands with a smug aura, slouched casually with his gun slung over his shoulder. "All growl and no bite."

Thomas wants to argue, but he wonders for a moment if it's true.

Newt is talking beside him, but his words blur when they reach Thomas' ears.

He doesn't miss the hunters smile, the same one he wears when he's so pleased. "We've joined forces," he says. "Vampires are obviously the smarter species, and the most controllable. They make lovely soldiers."

"This is sadism!" Newt shouts, and Thomas wants to chase away the pain in his voice. "Let them go!"

The hunter sighs like this is boring him. "Listen here, I know what you are, so I'm going to give you a choice. You can come and join us, or you can stay here with your  _dogs_ , and be killed."

The breath is punched out of Thomas' lungs. The bond between all of his pack members begins to twist. The air is tense and they are all suffocating with it when they wait, waiting to see if Newt will leave them.

Thomas isn't the only one who's attached to Newt, he knows that. Newt has created relationships and bonds with the rest of the pack, and if he leaves them now, the betrayal might ruin them all.

Thomas looks at Newt a moment before the vampire turns to meet his eyes. He can see the pain beneath the dark brown rings of his eyes. Newt has always been transparent when it's come to hiding how he feels, or at least, he has been ever since he came to them. Thomas has able to see beneath the snarls and the threats since the moment they met, seeing light and softness shining through the dark front he came with.

It's never really played on his mind whether or not Newt would go back to his pack if he had the chance. But he wonders now, now Newt is being given the choice to join his pack or fight them, he wonders what Newt will choose.

The guilt inside him intensifies with the thoughts. He knows he should have stronger trust and faith in his mate, but he knows what it's like to lose your family. His wasn't a choice, but if he was given the chance, he would sacrifice anything to see his family one more time.

He hopes Newt can see his uneven thoughts in his face, hopes the vampire can read the painful turmoil he's experiencing. He hopes Newt can understand his soundless questions.

Something within their bond changes when their eyes meet. It strengthens, builds new ties to make it lock even harder. Newt is staying with them, his high chin and warm eyes tell Thomas so. 

He doesn't take his eyes of Newt, even when the vampire looks back to the hunters and his clan. He watches Newt's expression harden, his jaw clench when his eyes meet the hunters.

"Over my dead body," Newt snarls.

The hunter laughs, long and low. A bad feeling sets in Thomas' stomach. "Oh, boy, you've really chosen the wrong side."

Thomas' spine goes tense, because that sounded more like a promise than a threat.

He isn't surprised when Alby is the first to move. He sees the way his stance shifts before he's leaping off the ground and lunging at Newt. Thomas' body moves before his mind and he's jumping, tackling Alby out of the air before he can reach his mate.

Thomas lands on his back, the air being knocked out of his lungs. He shifted in the air, so he's quick to roll up and pin Alby down. Claws slash at him, slicing through the air like a knife through soft butter.

All hell breaks loose, but Thomas isn't aware. The only thing he can focus on is dodging the calculated yet desperate swings of Albys's hands.

Thomas has fought all his life. Even before his pack were killed, him and his pack mates would always play fight. It was part of learning control, to be able to decipher the different between play fight and a real one.

After his family died, Thomas forgot how to play fight. He let his control slip, instincts of survival taking over. He was a cub without a pack, alone and scarred with horror and grief. The first time he'd met Jorge, he'd tried to tear his chest apart.

Now, Thomas doesn't know if he should be fighting like that or not. His instincts to survive are nagging at his wolf inside of him, nagging him to slice Alby's throat like a  piece of old meat. But his mind is screaming at him not to. This is Newt's pack, his  _family_. Thomas knows what it's like to have his family murdered, and he certainly doesn't want to do that to his mate.

He throws Alby off him completely, scrambling up. Jorge is next to him, clawed hands slashing at a vampire snarling at him.

"Don't kill them!" Thomas shouts, and Jorge looks up at him, his hands holding the vampire down, claws digging into the flesh of his throat. "They're being controlled. This isn't them. Don't kill them!"

Jorge stares at him like he's lost his mind. And then, a short moment later, he gives Thomas a quick nod. He slams his closed fist into the vampires head, knocking him out clean and quick.

Contain, not kill, Thomas mentally agrees.

Thomas channels into his bond with Newt. He can't find him among the crowd, but he can't feel any sense of pain or death through the bond. He can feel his emotional distress, feel his panic rumbling through him as if he was feeling it himself.

A weight suddenly barrels into his side and suddenly he's eating dirt. He lands with a grunt on his side, head cracking against the hard ground. He doesn't have a moment to register the jar of his head against the floor as a hand is grabbing his shoulders, claws piercing the flesh. He rolls onto his back, elbowing the vampire hard in the side of the head and knocking him off.

Thomas fights on autopilot, moving up and down, dodging swings and landing his own. The vampire is ruthless, never tiring as it swipes and snarls at Thomas like he's a werewolf himself. Thomas feels the sting and the pain as his skin is split and bruised, and his bones are bashed and his muscles scream in fatigue he refuses to acknowledge.

The fight is gruesome and gruelling, and Thomas struggles to contain his wolf enough not to slash the vampires throat. He must remember to not kill the vampire, only stall and knock them out.

He's got the vampire on his back, his hand on the side of their head, when a pain flares in his neck. A clamp is suddenly tightening around his chest, crushing his ribs and popping his lungs like balloons.

His mind screams at him, thousand voices from all directions shrieking and crying one word in his mind.

Newt.

Thomas gasps as he falls back, the pain almost blinding as it explodes in his neck. His eyes blur, unshed tears clouding his vision as he looks up, no need for searching the crowd as his eyes instantly find his mate across the green.

Newt is on the ground, blood spraying from his neck, pouring from his mouth as he chokes right before Thomas' eyes.

Thomas has felt his world collapse on him once, and now, everything is shattering again, raining glass and drowning him in acid.

The vampire he was fighting disappears from his thoughts and suddenly he's across the floor, tackling Alby from where he's still straddled over his struggling mate.

Alby goes down with a surprised grunt, and Thomas doesn't waste a moment. His sharp and thick claws tear through the dark skin of the vampire with no avail, no hesitation and no mercy. All memory of control slips from Thomas' consciousness as his eyes bleed their violent gold and he cuts and tears and slashes the flesh beneath him.

Thomas isn't seeing anymore. He isn't thinking. Blood stains his clothes, spraying on him like a shaken can of soda being opened. With one final feral thought, he raises his hand, his claws dripping with the vampires blood that drenches them both.

Alby looks up at him, eyes wide like he's surprised Thomas is doing this, that he has this much darkness in him and this ability to be violent. Thomas is surprised too, but it doesn't stop his mind from preparing himself to slash open the chest of the cowardly vampire below him.

A hand grabs his wrist and he snarls over his shoulder, his other clawed hand twitching to rip the intruder apart.

Teresa looks scared as he holds tightly onto his wrist. She shakes her head, "Don't do this, Tom. You're not a killer."

The words shine through the red haze of anger blinding his vision. He sees now, eyes fading back to brown as he looks down at the unmoving body underneath him. Alby is a mess of blood and flesh, eyes open and breath strained.

Thomas doesn't hold back the rumbling snarl he lets out, deep and dark, before he's climbing off the disgrace of a vampire and stumbling across the grass when the sight of Newt makes his legs go weak.

Newt is jerking on the floor like he's seizing, blood gushing from his throat. Thomas feels the blaze in his neck, burning his skin like a hot iron is pressing into the skin. He blinks through the tears filling his eyes, the pain creating a haze in his mind but he ploughs through it, time is too urgent and Newt doesn't have a lot of it.

Thomas can't choke out the words to call Newt's name, falling to his knees. Newt's eyes are closed, his breathing gargled as blood sputters from his slack mouth. Everything feels frozen, yet it also feels like it's flying by and leaving Thomas in the dust.

Newt is dying. His  _mate_  is—

"He's— he's— N-Newt—" Thomas stutters out words, his tongue tied and numb and heavy. He can't feel his chest, he can't feel his feet or his hands. He's numb and weightless yet so heavy he's drowning.

"Thomas, calm down," Teresa was right in front of him, directly in his eye line, nose inches from his own. "Just keep hold of that mate bond, okay? You can keep him alive, Thomas, just don't let go."

Thomas knew exactly what she was talking about: the metaphorical rope that binds mates together. He held on as tight as he could, straining every string in his heart to cling onto the last remains of life still in his still and bloody mate.

"Thomas, we need to move him," someone says in his ear.

The words reach his ears too late after they've been spoken and Newt is already being lifted, Teresa pulling Thomas away from him. She flashes him a gentle look, a  _pained_  look, before she's turning and helping Jeff carrying Newt away, towards the house and towards the infirmary.

The pain in his neck fades to nothing, and Thomas howls. The bones in his chest feel like they explode, splintering and piercing his heart over and over and over again. It's a physical pain he can't ignore, because Newt is so limp and so  _bloody_  in Teresa and Jeff's arms as they disappear.

He feels torn. He can't leave his pack behind to fight, but he feels like he's being shredded from the inside out by not being at Newt's side.

A shout distracts him and he turns. Through the whirlpool of fighting bodies, Thomas see's the cave of the gun pointed at him. He can hear the racing heartbeat of the hunter holding it.

Thomas doesn't move, he doesn't flinch as the hunter stares at him right in the eye, the cold fury burning before him. Thomas doesn't duck or fight, he just kneels there, ready and waiting, because a life without Newt is a life he doesn't want to live.

He see's movement out of the corner of his eye, and a second before the gun goes off, Thomas catches the familiar sight of curly brown hair jumping in front of him.

Chuck drops to the floor with a haunting thud, not even letting out a cry or a grunt.

For a moment, Thomas is too shocked to react, heart freezing in his chest.

No. No, no no no no—

He's crawling on his hands and knees, grabbing Chuck by the cheeks. Tears roll down his cheeks as he sees the growing patch of red under his left shoulder, right above his heart.

"No," he whimpers, voice cracking. "No, Chuck, what— you—"

Chuck smiles, and it makes the whole thing a thousand times more painful.

"It's okay," Chuck whispers, and Thomas wants to  _scream_  because it's not okay! None of this will ever be okay again! And yet, Chuck is still smiling, "It's okay, Thomas. It's okay."

"Chuck, what have you done?" Thomas whispers, slamming a hand over the wound, hand instantly becoming sticky with the warm, fresh blood wetting it.

"It's not your fault, Thomas,"

"I'm so sorry," Thomas sobs, tear tracks racing down his cheeks and falling, landing in small droplets on Chuck's t-shirt. There's blood everywhere now.

Chuck smiles, lips shaking, skin white. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out. The eyes looking back at Thomas go unfocused, his body slumping against the grass.

For the second time, Thomas feels his chest explode from under his skin. He looks up slowly, jaw shaking and eyes soaking their golden yellow. Instantly, he finds the hunter, pinned to the floor by Minho, gun tossed on the grass away from them.

Minho is looking up at him with eyes Thomas is soo rage-blind to decipher as he rises to his feet slowly.

"Stupid mutt," he hears the hunter mutter, and despite the words being quiet, they scream loud and clear in Thomas' ears. It's like a spark to a flame. The last straw for Thomas' bottled rage to be unleashed.

He dashes, so fast and straight it's like Minho didn't even see him coming, and jumps on to the hunter. Minho must move out of the way, because Thomas doesn't wait a moment before he's slamming his closed fist into the hunters nose.

Blood gushes down his face and he cackles, low and sadistic, as if the pain only humours him. It sends a shiver down his spine, but the satisfying feeling of the punch sticks with him and he hits again, and again and again, feeling his rage control his fists.

The laughter of the hunter gets louder, and it sounds so hauntingly familiar to when he burned Thomas' family alive all those years ago. Thomas slows his punches until they eventually stop, his heart hammering like a jack-knife in his chest at the sound he thought he'd only witness in his nightmares.

"Your precious pack would be so disappointed in you, Thomas," the hunter taunts, grinning as he speaks, his teeth red. "You are a pathetic excuse for a wolf."

"No," Thomas snarls, his fangs have dropped, making his words slurred and muffled. He's shifted, claws digging into his palms, piercing the flesh as his control becomes weaker.

"I'm gonna burn your pack like I did your family," the hunter torments him again, emphasising his words like punches. "I'm going to make you watch, make you  _beg_  for their lives even though there is nothing you can do to save them! And then, once their bodies are nothing but chargilled ashes, I'm going to put a  _bullet_  in your  _head_."

"No!"

Thomas doesn't care what Teresa said, he's been a killer since he caused the death of his pack when he was young, and he's going to be a killer now.

The feeling of his claws slicing through the flesh, muscle and bone of the hunters chest will never leave him. As blood spatters on his clothing and face, caking his hand in the ruby red liquid like a scar, he wonders if this is what Alby felt like when he tore Newt's throat in two.

The hunter's eyes grow comically wide and he jerks, blood gushing from his open chest. He falls still a moment later, blood spattering from his mouth when he coughs and chokes. He dies quickly, and Thomas doesn't know if that's what he wanted or not.

He looks up to find something he's only seen in nightmares: the ground is caked in blood, bodies lay upon the red grass, unmoving and limp.

The fight is over, but Thomas can't tell if they won.

As his eyes fade to brown, his posture slouches. He looks down at the blood and the mess. His hand looks like he's dipped it in a can of red paint, and the sight makes him want to vomit.

He can't look at Chuck. He can feel Minho's eyes on him, but he can't meet them, not anymore.

His eyes meet Jorge across the gardens, the alpha is hunched over a body, and from where Thomas is he can't see who, and he doesn't want to know. Jorge eyes are still red, still blazing but the rage is gone, instead replaced with sadness and fear - fear for a life.

Thomas is moving before he's even realised, stumbling across the grass and up the porch steps, one thing in mind as he runs, trembling, through the canteen and down the hall towards the infirmary.

The door swings open, and Teresa is there, clothes a rusty brown and hair a mess, eyes wide with panic.

"Thomas!" She's shouting, running towards him. "We need you, come on."

He's running before she's finished speaking, speeding past her on shaky legs and bursting through the hospital door and almost collapsing to the floor when he sees Newt on the bed.

Hands grab his shoulder, pulling him towards the bed. He thinks someone is talking to him, but his ears are stuffed with cotton.

He's never seen Newt so white, so colourless and still.

Thomas is snatching his hand off the bed with a gentle hand, drawing to take his pain and physically whimpering when there's none to take.

"That's it, Tom," Teresa whispers. "Hold onto him."

"T—"

"Don't," Teresa instantly snaps, moving around to the other side of the bed. "Don't think like that, Tom. You can't think like that."

Thomas doesn't reply, only looks down at Newt and reverses the pain draining, pushing his own energy into Newt. His head instantly spins, but he doesn't slow down as Teresa peals back the bloody bandage laying over his neck. Bile rises in Thomas' throat at the slice of the split flesh, still oozing blood. It looks like it will never wash away, and Thomas wonders for a moment if the blood will stain Newt's skin like a scar.

Will it scar?

Alby missed the mate bite by a centre-meter, the faded scar intact as it's shaded by the darkening blood.

Small blessings, Thomas thinks.

Teresa begins stitching, and Thomas pushes everything he has. He has to sit down after a few minutes, and when Teresa finally stands up straight, he pushes one last gush before letting go, absolutely exhausted.

"We did it, Tom," she murmurs, smiling slightly.

He doesn't return the smile as he says, "Did we?"

 

 _—_ _tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! come say hi to me on tumblr or wattpad :)
> 
> tumblr: bananabishka  
> wattpad: stilesroden


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas knows grief like everyone else knows walking. He's learnt it, perfected it. He's stood face to face with death countless times, breathed the same air, shared the same space. He's lost enough pieces of his heart and his soul over the years, chipped away with every death and loss and heartbreak, it's a surprise he isn't a monster in himself.

As he sits beside Newt's bed, clutching the cold hand like a anchor, he wonders if it's all for nothing. What's the point in holding on anymore? What's the point in trying to keep washing off the blood and blame that stains his hands like spilled ink?

Thomas is a monster, fact and fiction, it's in his DNA to rip apart the threat or the enemy.

There's dried blood on the hand that holds Newt's, contrasting horribly with the vampires white skin. Thomas doesn't know who's blood it is. It could be Newt's, it could be Alby's, it could be his own.

It could be Chucks.

Thomas closes his eyes to control himself, but the battlefield flashes behind his eyelids, like a white flash, blinding him. His eyes snap open, chasing away the vision of Chuck's dead eyes staring up at him as he dies in his lap.

"Tom?"

His head snaps up like it's going to break, and he finds Teresa standing on the other side of the bed, gloved hands mid-way to touching the bandage across Newt's throat.

"This is a stupid question, but are you okay?" She asks, words soft like velvet.

Thomas doesn't reply, just slowly drags his eyes back to Newt's face, slack with sleep.

"It's okay not to be okay, Tom,"

"I don't want to talk about it," Thomas whispers, voice croaky with emotion.

Teresa nods wordlessly. She looks tired, Thomas realises. More tired than any eighteen year old should. It's not just a physical tired, though. It's a exhaustion that's embedded into your skin like scars, that haunts your eyes and darkens your emotions. It weighs on you like a ton on your shoulders, dragging you down with every step.

Thomas watches the rise and fall of Newt's chest as Teresa peals back the bloody bandage from the vampires neck. He can't look at it, not yet. It's too soon, too raw. He can still feel the pulses with uneven thumps underneath his palms, the warm blood slicking his skin as it gushes out of him.

Instead, he watches Newt's face, tries to imagine that it looks peaceful with sleep, relaxed and at ease. That they didn't just survive a war and a fight, that they didn't just lose everyone and everything.

"You saved him, y'know," Teresa says, breaking the silence of the ward.

The fight ended two hours ago. The first hour, they were all on their feet, including Thomas as wolfs rushed in, carried or stumbling for help. Blood covered every surface of the floor, hands shaking and clothes filth. Thomas had helped on autopilot, stitching and bandaging and firing orders for more supplies as everyone else ran around like headless chickens.

The second hour, Thomas has sat exhaustedly at Newt's bed side, hand clutching his and trying to take the pain that isn't there. He watches the rise and fall of Newt's chest, listens to the faint sound of his breath, because that is the only sign he is still alive. His grip on the bond is weak, barely a closed fist to hang on with.

He looks away from Newt, across the beds to find everyone else. His eyes are drawn to Gally, at the far end, bandages covering every inch of skin, eyes closed and face pale. Thomas hates the guy, but family is family.

He drags his gaze to Brenda, Jorge by her side. A thick, wide bandage is wrapped around her head, and Thomas can still see the wound underneath, the skin refusing to close and heal. He can still remember the feeling of her blood under his fingers as he pushed the flesh together, piercing the skin with the needle and thread. 

He closes his eyes, aching and sore, heart punching like a boxer in his chest. 

"Thomas," Teresa says slowly, probably noticing the sudden rabbit beat of his heart.

"I killed someone, T," he whispers, voice raspy and cracking. "How am I ever meant to forgive myself for that?"

Teresa doesn't reply. Silence follows, stretched and painful. Then there's the sound of movement and Teresa is suddenly by his side, pulling him into her and wrapping her arms around him. He breaks then, falling through the cracks he'd been scrambling to keep together.

The first sob catches him by surprise, so hard and sudden it's like it was punched out of him. And then he can't stop, he's sobbing, crying, cheeks wet and eyes clenched shut. He's shaking against Teresa, leaning on her, and she takes his weight with no complaint.

He cries for a long time. He doesn't know how long, time is like a battle at the moment, the minutes ticking away from him. All he knows is that Teresa doesn't move away, she doesn't say anything, she just keeps holding on, holding him up and running and hand up and down his back in soothing motions. When he finally calms down, she doesn't stop.

They stay in silence, Thomas curled into her, knee's up on the chair.

"You'll forgive yourself, Tom," she whispers, "it will take a long time, because you're a stubborn shank that always drags yourself through the dirt for things, but you will forgive yourself."

"What about everyone else?" Thomas murmurs, too tired to speak any louder. His voice is merely a croak.

He feels Teresa smile into his hair, "we don't need time, because there is nothing for us to forgive. You didn't do anything wrong, Tom. It was selfdefense. He hurt you, he hurtNewt, he hurt your mate, he hurt your family, he tortured you as a child. He deserved what was coming to him, and you shouldn't hate yourself for that."

Thomas cries again, the whole thing too raw and fresh. It feels wrong to be the one breaking, the one crumbling under pressure. Thomas has always been the anchor who kept everyone floating away, but now it's like he's lost all of his ground, all of his hold and he's disappearing too.

*****

Thomas doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up with a gasp and Chuck's face flashing behind his eyes. He always topples out of his chair, jerking up so fast. His eyes are darting around, disorientated.

"Woah," something grabs his shoulder and he flinches, the chair screeching as it scoots across the floor from the momentum of his recoil.

"Hey, Thomas! Hey, hey, calm down," Teresa says, and Thomas does, going slack. She has her hands up in surrender, crouched beside him, eyes wide and face sad.

"I'm okay," Thomas says, still breathless.

Teresa nods, not asking questions. Her hands drop from their harmless stance, one clapping Thomas on the shoulder, just a simple touch to remind him of the emotional contact.

"We managed to get all of Newt's clan downstairs in the dungeon. Most of them are still unconscious. I don't know what they were given, so I don't know how long or if the mind control is going to wear off," Teresa says, standing up straight.

Thomas nods. "The hunters?"

"All gone," Teresa replies, and by the look on her face, Thomas knows 'gone' means dead.

Thomas nods again. There's nothing else to do. He looks to the bed at his side, a small part of him disappointed Newt hasn't moved. He looks no different: pale and sleeping. The bandage has been changed, fresh and bloodless.

Thomas feels a fragment of relief inside of him knowing Newt's family weren't killed. Betrayal is a hard thing to forgive, but Thomas has lost his family, he knows nothing is worse. And even if Newt doesn't forgive them, at least he has a choice.

Grief never goes away, Thomas has learnt. It sticks to you like a second skin, you just learn to wear it better. 

*****

It takes Newt a day and a half to wake up. Thomas doesn't move from his side during that time other than to help someone on the hospital floor. Every time he gets up to help, Teresa glares at him as if to say  _stay in that chair_.

It's been the worst day and a half Thomas can think of. Gally's unconscious body is riddled with wolfsbane, melting him from the inside and Teresa admitted a few hours before that they were running out of medicine. Brenda is still sleeping, showing no signs at all of waking up. Her eyes are sunken in her head, cheeks hollow and lips cracked from just a few days. Jorge looks just as bad, not moving, not sleeping. A plate of rotting food sits on the bed tray, untouched.

Thomas can't remember the last time he ate, but the idea of food makes him feel nauseous. 

He hates himself for being asleep when Newt wakes up, but he comes to to the sound of Newt's rasping voice filling his ears. At first, he thinks he's dreaming, mind making it up.

"How many did we loose?"

The words are tumbling from Thomas' lips before he can stop them, raising his head from the mattress as he mutters, "Too many."

It suddenly feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. His lungs are trapped in tightening clamps, crushing them. The room is too small, the walls feel like they're closing in. He's moving before he can think about it, getting up and walking out of the ward for the first time in two days.

He makes it to the canteen before his legs give out and he falls, landing on his knees breathlessly. His blood is rushing to his ears, pounding so loud he can't even hear himself breathing. 

"Thomas?" Someone says, "hey, buddy, you're okay. Calm down, you're safe. Breath, Thomas."

He opens his eyes, and the face opposite him makes the clamp finally realise and his lungs flood with air.

Minho smiles, "There ya go, shank."

They just stay like that for a few minutes, on the kitchen floor, Minho's hand resting gently on his shoulder, like an touch to keep him grounded. 

"Newt woke up," Thomas says after a moment, "and I walked out."

"Why'd you do that?" Minho asks.

"I can't stand him looking at me, Min," Thomas whispers. "I can't. . . what if he hates me for what I did? I almost killed Alby, I killed that hunter, I got Chuck—"

"Okay, stop right there," Minho snaps. "Newt will never hate you, and he definitely won't hate you for what happened. You didn't kill Alby, that piece of shit shank is currently downstairs. The hunter you killed? You had every single reason to kill him, because if you hadn't, I wouldn't have forgiven you. You killed your demon, Thomas. That man has been haunting you your whole life. He took everything from you as a child and he almost did it again. And Chuck . . ." Minho breaks off for a moment, "Chuck was not your fault. Chuck  _chose_  to jump in front of you, he  _chose_  to save you. Don't take that away from him. You can't feel guilty about this Thomas." 

"He was just a kid," Thomas whimpers.

"I know, buddy," Minho murmurs. "I know it hurts, but you're the strongest shank I know. Ya hear me? No one else would have been able to survive what you have, so there is no doubt that you're going to be okay from this."

_You have to be okay from this._

*****

When Newt next wakes up, Thomas snaps like a Christmas cracker. He crumbles like dry sand, slipping through someones fingers. But Newt is there, he holds him and murmurs soft words and for a small moment, everything is okay.

And in time, that will be a permanent feeling.

 

 

_— fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might come back and edit this last chapter. I'm not happy with it I just wanted to get it posted and out of the way.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos and comments! :)


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